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First, I want to clarify one thing: When I’m talking about “monster” here, I’m talking about the fictional archetype appearing in literature, cinema, video games, comic books, television, fairy tales and myths, works of art, etc. I am definitely not trying to define a ”real-life monster.” Ted Bundy is definitely a ”monster” in the generic since - he was certainly more terrifying, depraved, and destructive than many fictional monsters - but he’s not the kind I’m interested in defining, unless it’s part of a discussion of an “archetypal serial killer” as portrayed in art.

This is important for my next line of thought, which was inspired by interesting comments from Steve that made me start thinking about the difference between a “villain” and a “monster” (again, the fictional archetypes…). Though I believe that a monster can (and often is) a villain, and villains can sometimes be monsters, I think there is a distinction between the two and being one doesn’t ensure the other…

I started by going back to Wikipedia, which defines “monster” as “any of a large number of legendary creatures which usually appear in mythology, legend, and horror fiction…” and as “a gross exception to the norms of some ecosystem… Usually characterized by an ability to destroy human life or humanity…” Wikipedia defines a “villain” as: “an ‘evil‘ character in a story, whether an historical narrative or, especially, a work of fiction. The villain usually is the bad guy, the character who fights against the hero…”

Even the most basic Freshman lit courses teach us that a villain has a very specific role in fiction: to oppose the hero. A beginning screenwriting course will teach you that you need conflict to tell a good story, and the most recognizable form of conflict occurs when you have two “characters” with opposing goals - a hero (protagonist) and his villain (antagonist). The protagonist and antagonist come in many forms and shades, but through this conflict, we ultimately learn something about ourselves and the human condition. Given this definition, many monsters are also ”villains”: Ripley’s goal is survival, but the alien wants to eat her (though I’d point out that The Company and Ash are much more sinister villains…); Reese wants to protect Sarah Connor, but the Terminator wants to kill her; Chief Brody wants to make the beaches safe, and the shark wants to eat him and anyone else it comes across (the mayor is also a villain standing in the way of Chief Brody’s goal). 

If a “villain” has a specific role, what is the monster’s role in fiction and art? How does it teach us something about ourselves and the human condition? Again, I’d suggest that the monster’s role is to confront us with primal and universal fears (Criteria #1 in previous posts). The most successful monster stories dig deep into our psyches to draw out fears that can challenge, unsettle, warn, or inpsire us. We are confronted by: things we didn’t even know we feared (the fear that one day our kids will turn on us like they do in The Brood and Frankenstein); hard and sad truths that we will hopefully strive to overcome (we fear other races as much as the flesh-eating zombies in Night of the Living Dead); aspects of the monster with which we can identify and recognize within ourselves (fear that our own greed, loneliness, “otherness,” etc. will compel us to do wrong); and things we should fear but don’t actually respect enough (science in Frankenstein and The Fly, or atomic power in Them!). In these last two incarnations, monsters continue to serve as powerful cautionary figures, just as they do in folk tales: don’t go into the woods alone; don’t play god; take care of the planet and don’t piss off Mother Nature; keep your hubris in check; be responsible and don’t let that Jason kid drown in the lake while you’re off having a good time; and just don’t be a jackass to your fellow man because, although bad things can happen to good people, the jackass always gets it worse in the end.

In reviewing the criteria oultined previously, I had thought to add a #4 dealing with presentation and/or appearance, something along the lines of: ”Monsters are generally uncanny in appearance or behavior, setting them apart from humans and/or others of their kind.” Some of the most memorable monsters have physical traits that remind us of the fears they embody: the stitches on Frankenstein’s Monster remind us that he was pieced together from dead bodies; the Alien seems to wear his bones on the outside, resembling a skeleton and reminding us that it’s a walking death machine; Leatherface wears a bloody apron and a skin mask to remind us that we are just prey to be butchered and bled like animals, eaten, and even worn (plus, he’s deformed under the mask). I can think of very few monsters who don’t have this trait. Even Hannibal Lecter has his creepy stare.

But, the longer these lists get, the more there is to parse… Thoughts?

In between midnight feedings of my own little broodling, I’ve been just conscious enough to troll the internet. Tonight, I stumbled across this fantastic site, which boasts well-written and often genuinely funny reviews of many recent horror movies, including a number of offerings from the SciFi channel. Check out the reviews for Ice Spiders (yes… Ice Spiders…) or Lake Placid 2 for a taste.

Adding and revising some “rules” based on comments/additional discussion.

1. A Monster is a manifestation or embodiment of a primal or universal fear (or fears). See post below for more. This doesn’t mean that the monster is inherently evil.
2. A Monster threatens, harms, or kills us. Again, doesn’t mean the monster is inherently evil, or even aware of their impact on humans, but has the capacity and tendency to hurt us.
3. A Monster requires heroic measures to defeat, overcome, or escape. A monster initially seems to be beyond our ability to control or contain easily (thanks Vik!). 

I continue to chip away at the rest of the site - someday I might actually add something to the Links page. Tonight, a few new entries in the comics section of the Bibliography.

Now that EJ has called me out on his blog (if you ever want proof you’re not making the most out of your time on this earth, read EJ’s excellent musings as he vacations in his own city), I’m (self-)pressured to post something more thoughtful than “The Brood kicks ass!” (though, I don’t think that can be overstated). Luckily, my friend Vik gave me some grist: After reading my post on The Thing, he engaged me in an e-mail exchange about the nature of monsters. Vik started by referencing the wikipedia entry on monsters (recommended reading), and asked “Does a monster need to be inherently evil?” I’ve never tried to define what “monster” means to me, and Vik’s initial line of questioning got me thinking about formulating some sort of personal parameters for the monstrous. So, here’s what a “monster” is to me:

• A monster is a manifestation or embodiment of universal or primal fears, and engenders that emotional response when we’re confronted with it (even if we don’t always understand why). Some of the best monsters represent a number of fears simultaneously — Frankenstein’s monster embodies a fear of science, fear of the body, fear of one’s remains being desecrated, fear of the state of undeath, even a fear that one can be ”born bad” (which certainly seems to be Frankenstein’s perception of his creation… But more on that later). 

• Monsters threaten, harm and kill us. This can range from malicious monsters who set out to commit murder, to creatures acting on instinct, to misunderstood monsters who are driven to fight back because we leave them no other choice. It can also include monsters who are simply confused: In the 1931 film version of Frankenstein, the Monster mimics Maria, who is tossing flowers into the lake, by throwing the girl into the water. He isn’t intent on killing her, but she seemingly drowns all the same.  

• A monster does not need to be inherently evil. Are the aliens in the Alien series innately evil, or simply an animal acting on instinct? I prefer the latter, yet they can still be “monsters” because they (very graphically) represent some really fundamental fears: fear of the unknown, fear of the body, fear of infection, fear of nature… I’m partial to the misguided, misunderstood, and tragic monsters myself, though the inscrutably evil monsters — those monsters who are evil without any explanation or backstory — can often be just as terrifying. Hannibal Lecter (from Silence of the Lambs, at least), the Shape in the original Halloween, and “The Man with the Scarlet Eye” (”Friend”) from Robert R. McCammon’s Swan Song are all decent examples. The fact that we don’t know what makes them tick makes these characters even more frightening. 
• A monster does not need to be sentient or self-aware. The base definition of a monster as the manifestation of something we all fear can easily include monsters that don’t have any recognizable consciousness or personality (and, in fact, this might be the ultimate representation of the “Fear of the Unknown” — something so alien and different that we can’t even communicate with or recognize anything of ourselves in it). But again, the most memorable and effective monsters do seem to have at least some sort of consciousness, along with a corporeal form — they are tangible and physically present. As an example, look at the common Fear of Disease/Infection. In this case, the monster could be a disease/virus itself (The Andromeda Strain), or the contagious carrier (any flesh-eating zombie movie), or even the creator of the disease. But what’s scarier? A zombie from Dawn of the Dead, or the virus in Outbreak? There’s no right answer, but I’d tend to go with the zombie (though I’d also argue that the real monster in Outbreak is the government. Or that damn monkey).

That’s all I’ve generated thus far. Thoughts welcome.

Growing up in the early 1980s, cable television was a boy’s best friend. The cable networks seemed to have endless film libraries and showed new movies nearly every night; boxing and football received extended coverage on HBO and ESPN thanks to shows like “Inside the NFL”; and “Parental control” was still an oxymoron, consisting of basically a small gold key that was easily replicated using a paperclip. And few phrases are as universally understood by the male children of the 80s as ”Late Night Cinemax.”

It was through cable television that I was introduced to most of the films that bludgeoned my creative mind into the piece of semi-conscious meat it is today: Psycho, the Blob, the Creature from the Black Lagoon, Alien, Jaws, Blow Out, The Brood, Body Double, The Omen, C.H.U.D., Zapped… And the great thing about cable - you knew the movies would be on again. And again. And again. We couldn’t pause or rewind, but it didn’t matter when you could watch a movie enough times to commit every scene, every line, every gratuitous axe-to-the-face or werewolf transformation or shower scene to memory. And there were always those movies that, no matter where you came into them, once you flipped them on, you had to watch until the end credits. I still get sucked in like this. 

One of the films I could never escape and watched a dozen times or more was John Carpenter’s The Thing. A loose remake of The Thing from Another World and based on the short-story “Who Goes There?” by John W. Campbell, Jr., the story involves a group of researchers in Antarctica who are menaced by a shape-changing alien that can assimilate and impersonate other life-forms (full synopsis at Wikipedia). So, why is it a great foray into the dark divide?

• Incredible SFX. Rob Bottin’s work on The Thing is among the best of the decade. The monster’s transformations are genuinely gruesome and disturbing. The SFX also introduced me to Fangoria magazine — I bought my first issue after seeing an image from the film on its cover.  

• A relatable cast. Though you learn very little about the characters and their pasts, they all still manage to seem real and tangible. Like the “truckers in space” in Alien, the research station’s crew are likable, flawed, and human. There are no superheroes here, and they all seem as terrified by the situation as the audience, which only makes the film more gripping. And yet, you still wanted to grow up to be a guy like Kurt Russell’s chopper pilot, MacReady. 
• Paranoia punctuated with genuine scares. Tons of other movies have included this same basic concept of an alien that can imitate, possess, or replace humans, making it impossible for the characters to trust one another. But I’d argue that few do it as masterfully as The Thing. The “Blood Test” scene is particularly effective, as MacReady tests each crew member’s blood sample by jabbing a petri dish with a hot wire. During this, the crew members that haven’t been “cleared” are tied up, angry and afraid. The tension in the scene is almost unbearable, and when the inevitable happens and one of the petri dishes erupts, the room goes nuts.
• Best. Ending. Ever. Two guys drinking in the middle of the Antarctic, with no hope of escape, not knowing if the other is infected…

Started the Werewolf page of the Monster Pet Project. Just a brief intro and a bit of info on the 1913 film The Werewolf. Check it out!

I’m starting to post findings from my personal pet project involving the study of “monster archetypes” as they are portrayed in various popular media, with emphasis on how these monsters have evolved and changed thanks to specific films, novels, comic books, games, or television shows. Not much has made it onto the site yet, but check out the intro to the project on the Monster Pet Project page.

I’m starting up a new series of posts about the media that left a lasting impact on me. Not sure why. Maybe so you can scar your children with this stuff too.When I was in sixth or seventh grade, I was selected by my school to be sent to a “writers conference” to meet with and interview published writers. I don’t remember much, not even which writers were there, but they all seemed incredibly old. The only writer I recall talking with told me that I had to “immerse myself in media.” He suggested several movies that I “had to see.” One of these was called Videodrome.

A few weeks later, I had my 12th birthday. My dad had gotten into the habit of renting a beta cassette or laser disk player and a handful of movies for our birthday sleepovers. One of the movies I asked him to rent was this mysterious Videodrome. I don’t know why Dad didn’t check the rating or even read the description of the movie — maybe he just trusted me — but at about ten o’clock that night, Videodrome left a bulging scar across my brain.

It’s hard to summarize Videodrome. Thankfully, Wikipedia can do that for me, but for the link-impaired, a high-level plot summary goes something like this: Max Renn, a sleazy television executive (played James Woods, natch) is searching for new material for his network when he discovers a plotless torture show (called Videodrome) that might actually be snuff tv. Renn begins to hallucinate and eventually learns that the hallucinations are a side-effect of a brain tumor caused by the Videodrome broadcast. After being programmed by Videodrome execs, Renn murders his own partners. He is later reprogrammed by the daughter of an eccentric media professor and goes on to kill the villains who created Videodrome before seemingly committing suicide at the film’s conclusion.

All I really remembered was Debbie Harry as a crazy S&M chick who pierces James Woods’ ear while they are having sex, the red clay room where the Videodrome snuff films are filmed, and a scene in which a gun fuses with Woods’ hand. Oh, and there’s a really creepy moment when Woods tries to make out with his tv…

Yet for as disturbing as Videodrome is, it actually had a lasting and positive impact on me creatively. It was perhaps my first step into the “dark divide” - the often frightening but exhilarating space between reality and fantasy. Videodrome is now a cult classic and I’m sure entire PhD papers have been written on its cultural relevance and themes.  But it’s an important part of my creative development because it actually made me think.

• I experienced a story where the narrator is unreliable and reality can’t really be trusted. This is a well-used convention now, but circa 1985 I hadn’t seen anything like it.
• It left me with questions. Because the narrator is unreliable, I had to question everything about the story. Does the protagonist really kill himself at the end of the film, or does he somehow shed his old flesh and destroy Videodrome as his (probably dead) girlfriend instructs?
• It introduced me to David Cronenberg, perhaps one of the most challenging directors of the past fifty years. Nearly every Cronenberg movie has left a lasting impact (especially The Brood, Scanners, Dead Ringers, and The Fly).
• It has mature and complex themes. Though my 12-year old mind had no idea what a “theme” was, nearly every movie I had seen up to that point was focused on relatively simple themes, such as the battle of good versus evil. But Videodrome’s ”betrayal of the body” theme (which recurs in many of Cronenberg’s films, and is most graphically depicted in The Fly) is deeply disturbing and forces the viewer to confront an inescapable aspect of the human condition. The “media will control you mind” theme has also become extremely well-tread, but Videodrome was the first movie that made me even start to consider the power of tv. Finally, it was the first film that made me think about an antagonist that exists beyond flesh-and-blood villains. In some ways, the pervasive, tumor-inducing broadcast of Videodrome is a precursor to the Matrix and other similar films.  
• It’s about an anti-hero. Max Renn is a far cry from Luke Skywalker, with virtually no redeeming qualities. Yet the story still draws you in, and somehow you end up rooting for him. This taught me that stories can have all types of heroes, and sometimes those with the greatest flaws are the most interesting.
• It gave me courage to watch other films. I think that most of the eight kids at the sleepover got up and went into another room at some point during Videodrome, and most didn’t finish it. Only my (younger!) brother and I watched the whole thing. Afterwards, I realized that if I could sit through something as genuinely disturbing as Videodrome, I could probably watch nearly anything that aired on cable television, including other “bad influences.” But more on those later.  

So, I guess that weird anonymous writer was irresponsible but right. Even though I was only 12, I really neededto see Videodrome. 

M83, Dead Cities, Red Seas & Lost Ghosts

I watched the trailer to the Russian movie Night Watch over a dozen times, mainly because it was cut so well to the music. I became obsessed with the “title track” to the trailer, but couldn’t find a soundtrack. Good thing as that building, electronic piece isn’t in the film. Eventually, thanks to the magic of the Internet, I stumbled across a site that listed the trailer music as “Unrecorded” by M83 (evidently named after a galaxy). “Unrecorded” is definitely a highlight, but the whole album is really good stuff in the same class as Mogwai and Explosions in the Sky.

More info on M83 is available at their label, Gooom.